


Thanks and You're Welcome by TeeJay

by TempestuousJones



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen, Humor, Monologue, Skinnerfic, Swearing, Workplace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 07:11:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7748074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TempestuousJones/pseuds/TempestuousJones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally posted in Spring of 2000: The Surly One gives Moose and Squirrel a long overdue<br/>piece of his mind. Skinner  hasn’t been truly surly in such a long<br/>time. For the last couple of seasons, I think he’s been  poorly<br/>written on the show. He seems docile, almost ... dare I say it...<br/>wimpy.  He doesn’t seem to be the same man who told Smoky to “pucker<br/>up and kiss my ass”. Well, if you want something done right...<br/>Disclaimer: Not Mine, rats. No profit, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanks and You're Welcome by TeeJay

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted waaaaaaaay back in Spring of 2000, which would be about mid-way through the run of the show; some spoilers and general plot background is referenced in the fic up to that point in the show. My pseud at the time was TeeJay. I can't remember everywhere this fic was posted; WalterTorture, maybe SkinnerFans, I'm just not sure anymore. I apologize for any odd formatting; I am working with a copy that has been through three hardrives, countless floppy disks, thumb drives, email transfers, back up portable drives, two operating systems, each with many updates, and a half a dozen different file formats , including software that translated back and forth between Apple and Microsoft documents. Ah, the good ol' days:) I don't think it was beta'd either.

THANKS AND YOU’RE WELCOME

 

Skinner: “Stop it. Stop looking at me like you think I’m stupid.

You're the ones talking to me about aliens and black oil and clones

and those fucking bees. You want me to act? To arrest somebody? Hey,

personally, I can’t wait! But as a higher-level law enforcement

official, I would have to say direct evidence would be nice to have.

And in seven years the two principal agents on the case have not

provided that.  *My* bosses are impressed.  Thanks.

 

               Oh, right. *My* bosses. You’re bothered by that. Well, the last

time I looked, Janet Reno signs my paycheck.  Oh, I’ve had other

“offers”. You know that.  And you also know that, rarely, I take

them. I’m not going to whine to you and make excuses that I had no

choice there. I did have choices: *Not* take the offers. Quit this

job. Go fishing. In New Zealand. For a month. Find a new lover, get

laid a lot.  Pack off somewhere far away  with  eight or nine

suitcases full of all the books I’ve wanted to read for the last

twenty years. Yeah, guys, I’ve been at this a lot longer than seven.

Abandon you and the X-Files, maybe to oblivion. Definitely to what

ever vulture they install in may place. Remember Kersh?

 

               But, no. I’m still here. I have made the choice to stay. 

Standing on the line that both teams are trying really hard to cross.

Signing off with a straight face on some of the most, ah, interesting

expense accounts and acquisition requests anybody in this building

ever remembers. Then *explaining* them, and my support, with a

straight face, to my bosses. Who will toss me out on my ear when the

mood finally strikes them. Leaving you abandoned again.  You’re

welcome. 

 

               Some of my choices are not popular. I know that. I don’t care. I’m

out of high school, now;  I don’t care about being popular.  You keep

forgetting I’m an administrator here, a *strategist*. That means I

think ahead. About everything, including completing this quest to

it’s *just *conclusion. That means, to me anyway, bringing these

people and their crimes to Geneva so they can  do some explaining.

And then get what they’ve got coming. 

 

               I want to win the war, agents, long term. Not just single penny-

ante battles. Sometimes, to get there from here, I have to throw a

battle, as distasteful  and unjust as that is. Those aren’t my

favorite choices. Don’t mistake that. That is the hardest part about

my job, the most difficult thing about overseeing the X-Files. Oh, I

could make myself more comfortable, I could officially cut myself

loose from this caseload, and you, but I won’t. Like I said, I’m

interested in justice here, and we all know we won’t get it  if I’m

not here.  You’re welcome.

 

               Some of my other unpopular choices were intended to keep your asses

alive. If you think you’ve had some close brushes with death working

on these cases, you should do the tally from my vantage point. You

really don’t know how often, or how close. It is a large part of my

job, and a frustrating one at that, to ensure the safety of my agents

in the field. This job gets harder than it needs to be when one

agent, I’ll let you figure it out, frequently goes off half cocked

all over the fucking globe, and the other one doesn’t trust me enough

to  tell me where the hell he is, or what the fuck he’s doing, even

though I’m her direct superior.   And then expects me to provide

knowledgeable, competent help, on demand, without prior notice, when

they get in over their heads.  I amaze even myself.  

 

               If they need something from me, I might get a long distance phone

call, or even a personal visit, to my humble abode,  with known felon

in tow, no less, endangering me, my neighbors, our careers,  always

at some ungodly hour in which I would normally like to be sleeping.

Sometimes (and I really love it when this happens) I’m even in a

meeting discussing *your* budget, or, will wonders never cease, other

caseloads, and in you barge, as if *none of it mattered*, demanding

all kinds of retribution or assistance from me, in front of my peers

and bosses ( and therefore *your* bosses, too, you keep forgetting

that). Smooth move. Thank you.

               Because your welfare is my number one concern, I still take these

damn calls, visits, and intrusions.  You’re welcome.

 

               Yes, I am a little concerned about what my peers and bosses think.

I am not some preening middle management ass worried about looking

good and getting those beefy promotions. I’m no idiot, there’s no

“up” for me , it’s just “down” or “out” now.  As I said before, they

have enough on me by now to toss me out whenever they damn well feel

like it. No severance, no pension, no restaurant fraud cases in

Sequim, WA, for the rest of my life; no,  I’m talking *fired*, like

the last twenty some odd years never even happened. And we’ve

discussed where that would leave you two. I don’t like that scenario.

You’re welcome.

 

               There are a lot of things here I don’t like, agents, that I can’t

do anything about, and I can’t ... I can’t stand it. I don’t like

that they keep picking on you. It is nothing more than basic

schoolyard bully behavior, and I hate it. It’s playing pretty damn

dirty, the abduction, the experiments, the cancer. I don’t like that

damn *thing* in your neck, even if it is controlling your cancer. I

don’t know what the hell it’s for, I don’t know how it works, or what

it’s doing, and I don’t like it.

 

               I don’t like all the lies and wild goose chases and dead ends, no

matter what we do. And I really don’t like how Ol’ Smoky  just sat

here, in my office, year after year, day after damn day, just...

staring at me- - ewww- -and smirking about everything through that

damn cigarette smoke, in this non-smoking office, in this non-smoking

federal building, sneaking in ashtrays to replace the ones I toss

out. I. Don’t. Smoke. Damn it. I had to fucking shoot at him before

he would get out and stay the hell out.

 

               I don’t like how they’ve dragged our families into this. I don’t

like that my wife is dead; it doesn’t matter that she was going to be

my ex-wife soon. I don’t like the murdered relatives. I don’t like

being shot by the people who shot them when I reopen one of their

cases. I don’t like it when an agent gets mad a t me when we have a

disagreement on *why* the case was ordered closed in the first place.

I got the damn thing opened again, OK? And lost a couple of pints

over it, OK? You’re welcome.

 

               Christ, I hate hospitals.

 

               I don’t like being in them. Being shot. Being infested with

nanocytes. I don’t like seeing my friends and colleagues in them. I

don’t like seeing their friends and loved ones in them.  I didn’t

like it when you were in the hospital, after being abducted, in a

coma,  not knowing what the hell was wrong with you; I didn’t like

you being back in when you got cancer. I don’t like you being in them

the odd time you’ve been shot, or injured, or roughed up. I don’t

like it when *you’re* in the hospital, either, getting roughed up, or

drugged, or nearly drowned, or sick from something weird,  or having

a psychotic episode for one reason or another. No, it doesn’t matter

to me ‘why’, and I don’t like it when you get angry with me if I

disagree about the ‘why’ part. I don’t care ‘why’ any of this

happens; it’s bad enough for me that * it happens*. 

 

               And I don’t like busting you out of hospitals, either, although I

think I should get used to it, since it seems to be my new hobby.

You’re welcome.

 

               I didn’t like it when your sister was in the hospital. And I got

beaten up in the stairwell when I went to see her--by the usual

suspects!-- and lost that damn tape, the only bargaining chip we have

ever had in this, maybe even evidence, too. We had Albert for a

while, but now he’s dead and I don’t know which of his people are the

code talkers.  I’m sorry.

 

               I don’t like the fucking attitude that certain people  have that

the whole world revolves around the X-Files, and my only job is to

facilitate them.  I am an Assistant Director in the Federal Bureau of

Investigations; as I figure it, that means I investigate shit. A lot

of shit.  On my desk right now, in addition to ONE X-File, is one

serial murderer case in Atlanta, a really nice piece of work with a

thing for nipple clips and seven-year-olds;  a money laundering ring

working out of Chicago, through most of the  other states; a referral

from the FDA concerning pediatric clinical trials that may have

informed consent problems; a Federal agent working on illegal arms

sales to Iran who is now missing-- in Iran;  a scary little hacker

who especially likes the CDC’s research database;  speaking of CDC,

I’ve got a bunch of Marines coming down with odd symptoms who haven’t

been to the Gulf-- just Plum Island; a really scary missing persons

case that’s been going on for, Christ, decades, where the * victim*

keeps sending *me* evidence; and another senate resolution that once

again makes me wonder what country our elected officials think

elected them.  Me, my ulcer, and my sleep disorder love this shit. We

sincerely and heartily thank every bully and creep in the world.

 

               Be quiet, agents, I’m not finished. Add to the list one werewolf-

stole -a-baby case. The thing that’s really pissing me off, besides

your sitting in my office lecturing me about my my dedication and

professionalism, is the nagging feeling that if it wasn’t a werewolf,

you wouldn’t be interested in the case in the first place. No, don’t

answer that; I want to sleep tonight.  I don’t need any of you’re ego-

feeding outrage right now; I’m tired. Thanks.

 

               Personally, I don’t give a damn if it’s a werewolf or a big hairy

guy with bad teeth; somebody stole that baby. I want the baby back.

 

               Like you’re the only smart person in the entire FBI; you barely

even acknowledge your  partner’s brains for chrissakes. I’ve seen the

wording in your reports. The FBI doesn’t hire Stupid or Lazy.  Get

that into your amazing skull, before I or your partner here finally

get sick of you. Oh yeah? Ask me what my doctorate is in, agent, then

ask me where I got it. Thank you.

 

               International Law. PhD. Harvard. Shit. Psych majors. You can get

one of those at a community college, for fuck’s sake.

 

               So now maybe you can understand my insistence on following the

rules, the letter of the law. I feel better knowing law enforcement

agents are capable of doing that.  And when I question you, or

scrutinize your findings, it’s to warn you, not discourage you. I

think it would be a shame, a sad waste, to lose one or both of you

because you acted rashly on false accusations or shaky evidence, or

plain old dumb mistakes.  I’m trying to protect you from that, damn

  1. And I’m trying to keep you from getting killed, double damn it.



Your welcome. You think my replacement was Unfriendly? You should see

who they have lined up to replace *you*. That Spender kid wouldn’t

even come close.

 

               No, I can’t talk about it. I can’t talk about a lot of things.

Because I don’t want you getting involved. *Because*, agents, I don’t

want you getting hurt on my account. You’ve got a full plate as it

is, and besides, there’s this investigative confidentiality thing.

You are not involved in most of these cases. Here we go again,

agents, regulations. Read them. Thanks.

 

               And too many people would like to know what I’m thinking and doing

in my investigations. Don’t get me wrong, I trust your

professionalism; but I thought it was obvious that I’m always under

surveillance.  They've surveiled you, you’re office, your

apartments; well, me too. It’s safe to say this is the most bugged 25

by 15 office space in the western world!

 

               In addition to Smoky, and Krychek, here’s one from the CIA in that

potted plant; this paper weight is no doubt from Military

Intelligence; the wall socket there is from the NSA, I think the

Mob’s got one in the toilet, and various fake manuals and

encyclopedias in the bookcase are from  assorted underlings of shady

senators and congressmen who don’t like me investigating their

bills, and some from our very own people who just don’t like me. 

And yes, I have a few of my own in here, just to be a punk. They can

put that in their pipe and smoke it.  They’re welcome. 

 

               I have quite a lot to do here, agents, so if you would just- - -

Hush. No. It’s all right. I’m fine. No, you can’t help. You have

enough to do, I’m not kidding. No, guys, I can’t. It’s all right,

agents.  It will all be all right. You have to let me work. Yes.

You’re dismissed, agents.

 

Thank you.”

 


End file.
